


The Mirror Fills in the Blanks of Dreams

by orphan_account



Series: Hamilton at Hogwarts [1]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Dreams vs. Reality, Implied Sexual Content, Kinda, M/M, Mirror of Erised, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 11:29:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11379297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Harry Potter has dreams. Has always had dreams. Dreams of another's life.The wall between them was breaking down. Soon they'd be one and the same.The mirror he found that Christmas only sped up that process.





	1. Find us

Eleven-year-old Harry Potter – was he even Harry Potter? – had snuck out of Gryffindor dormitory again that night.

He’d been debating whether he was in fact Harry Potter. Everything was so confusing. He’d live in this world awake, magic thrumming through his veins, as Harry Potter. The boy-who-lived. An eleven-year-old boy wizard. A wand held gently, to be used to learn.

But, at night, he’d dream. 

Dream of living elsewhere. At first, as a young child (both in his dreams and out), of watching out of fancy windows. Looking over the men working. Being made to work in chains. Feeling, deep under his breastbone, that this was wrong. Of a loving mother and a stern father. A happy family. Siblings, most dying as infants and all being mourned, some growing older.  
Then, of growing older. Boarding school in another country. Boys, few and far between. Longing looks and late night alcoves – hidden away. Of one girl, marrying her after making a mistake. Harry, he seriously doubted he was Harry when he first woke, soon realised this mistake was a child.  
Now he dreamed of cold tents, essays frantically written into the dawn, hot blood against his skin. The shouts of men, dying, drowned out by his own adrenaline and the cacophony of a quill against parchment and a lone candle in the silence. Of comradery with a man with a ridiculously long name and a French accent. Of something closer with another. Of waking to copper hair, it wasn’t ginger like Ron’s. Waiting for the sound of the boots of the person rousing them to quieten before being captivated by violet eyes when this person turned over in his arms to face him.

What he’d found the night before made last night’s dreams more. It broke down the barrier in his mind between Harry Potter and the other one. Dreams of chairs under door handles despite no one else in that house. Violet eyes fluttering closed and copper strands wrapped around his fingers. Tasting sweat and skin under his tongue. Hot breath against his ear. Breathy cries of –  
Something.  
His name, most probably. The other one’s name. 

He was sure, positive even, that going back would give him his name.  
His true name.

 

He stole through the corridors, making his way to the room.  
He pushed open the door slightly, sliding inside. Making sure it was empty of life, before dropping the cloak that hid him and stepping towards the mirror.  
The inscribing, a code he had no difficulty cracking that it was laughable, stared down at him. Harry knew he wouldn’t have had cracked it before, but the wall between them was tumbling down quickly now and the other one was smarter than he. 

I show not your face but your heart’s desire. 

Harry stepped forward, toe to toe with the other one who stared back to him from the mirror. Blue eyes, icy in colour, but had a warm gaze. Skin slightly tanned from his Southern upbringing. Blond-brown hair, tied back from his face.

He observed the others in the mirror, heart twanging from seeing familiar faces that Harry did not know. Faces the other one knew.  
Curly blond hair, tall and beaming. He knew that the man would coo over his short stature. Lafayette was as French as they come. Yes, that was Lafayette. Basically, Washington’s adopted son and far too many names. He leaned against the other one, arm wrapped around the back of his neck and clutching the arm of the man on his other side, pressing them as close as he could.

The other man was one Harry was very familiar with.  
Freckles pouring from the bridge of his long nose, falling across the tanned cheeks. Curly copper hair, tied back messily by the other one when it was about to fall into his ink pot during his work. It had once and the letter had swirls all over it from his single minded strive to jot down everything quickly as dawn approached. Washington had been exasperated and, according to the other aide-de-camps, amused. The other five aide-de-camps showed up in the dreams now and again. Tanned skin from hailing from the Caribbean, slender with sharp features. Large violet blue eyes gazed by at Harry, a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth when he caught him looking. He had one arm around the other one’s waist. That could never have happened in public, yet his dear Alexander tucked up into his side often. 

Not his, the other one’s side, Harry reprimanded himself. His thought’s voice adopted a slight twang of accent which he ignored. 

Does it matter?

Alexander leaned forward to the glass, talking, and although he couldn’t hear him, he could tell what was being said.

Three words, repeated over and over again with a fond smile.

Find us…

And another word. Familiar in shape from the most recent dreams of the night before. His name. The other one’s name. Was there a difference?

 

That didn’t matter right now, maybe it would come to him tomorrow. What mattered was that this Lafayette and Alexander had come back through dreams of others. Basically reborn. 

Reincarnated.


	2. Most Darkest

His name didn’t come to him the next night and so on into the winter holidays. More and more people filled the mirror every night.

Washington, with Tench Tilghman stood next to him and the other aide-de-camps lounging around him. Burr stood in the other corner, far away from Alexander. His siblings around him, little James sat curled at his feet with Martha fussing over him. His wife, as ashamed as he was with how he treated her, stood with a bundle of a child in her arms. His daughter, little Frances. She stood off to one side. Despite wondering, initially, why she was in the mirror he soon figured that he desired to apologize of how he had acted. Of how he had used her.

Shadowy figures flickered in the background of the mirror, sometimes far away. Sometimes closer. He would see their faces only to promptly forget them as soon as he looked away. A woman will straight hair. A young man with freckles. A man in purple. A woman who’d come the closest, wrapping her arms around Lafayette.  
Others.

Alexander had informed him that only some of them had to be found. Washington and Burr so far and others that he, the other one, did not know. The shadow ones.

The walls had come near completely down. All but his name. He just needed to know his name. 

Ron had noticed a slight difference in his voice. Neville had chimed in, claiming it to be American. He then turned away to cough, having caught an illness from the frost. His wizard chess pieces began listening to him when he commanded them.

 

He frowned as he watched the people interact, feeling lonely on the other side of the mirror. Sure, Ron and Hermione were great, but they weren’t Alexander and Lafayette. God, he almost wished he was back in the war. Then they’d be together agai-  
There was someone behind him. 

He surreptitiously fingered his wand, desperately wanting to be the heavy weight of a musket, and straightened his back. Waiting.  
“Back again, Harry.” Dumbledore said. He stood, slipping his wand back into his pocket.  
“Sir.”  
“I see that you, like so many before you, have discovered the delights of the mirror of Erised,” He hummed as Dumbledore looked over his half-moon glasses at him. The headmaster reminded him of Washington, but… He wasn’t convinced that he was the general. “I trust, by now, you realise what it does.”  
He breathed out a laugh, replying,  
“The deepest,” He glanced back, catching Alexander’s eyes. His voice shook as he spoke, “Most darkest,” He looked at the ground before meeting Dumbledore’s inquisitive, knowing gaze, “Desire of our hearts.”  
“You see your family standing beside you,” He didn’t reply to this, wondering if he actually knew what he saw. Who he was. By this, probably not. “ This mirror gives us neither knowledge or truth,” A bang shot through the room, making him jump, spinning to the mirror. Alexander had slammed one hand against the other side. Dumbledore, despite not seeming to hear this laughed, “It convinces people to stay in front of it. Men have wasted away in front of it. Even gone mad. That is why, tomorrow, it will be moved to a new home,” Alexander’s other hand touched the glass, a frantic gleam in his eyes. The scene had gotten smaller, showing just Lafayette and Alexander now. Frantic. Scared. Angry at Dumbledore’s words. “I must ask you not to go looking for it again. It does not do to dwell on dreams Harry and forget to live.”

Alexander was alone now, shouting. It tugged at his heart to see his lover so heartbroken. He blinked, seeing a scene much like this on the back of his eyelids. Before he departed to South Carolina. Before the Battle of the Combahee River.  
The silent babble morphed into his name. What was his name?  
Alexander’s hair slipped out of the loose tie, falling into his face. He stepped forward to the mirror, mindless of Dumbledore’s gaze turning sharp. He reached up to tuck the copper behind his ear, momentarily forgetting that he wasn’t actually there. 

He placed his hands over Alexander’s and they bowed their heads, him on his tip toes, to place their foreheads together. 

He could feel warm breath against his face and the warmth of another living being under his palms.  
Alexander’s voice was quiet mumbles. He soaked in the soft voice. It wasn’t deep, his (the other one’s) was a slight baritone, but almost musical. He knew he’d sing alto, if war had allowed singing. Joy when not drunk or hidden away.  
He stretched taller, trying to hear.

A hand clamped on his shoulder, dragging him back.  
“Harry, my boy, this is how it traps you.” Dumbledore pulled him away from the mirror, out of the room as he struggled. He thrashed in his grip, a desperate cry coming from the mirror,

“John!”

He stilled and the door swung closed. Dumbledore flicked his wand and it audibly locked. He looked shaken and pulled him along.

“I will escort you back to Gryffindor tower.” 

John Laurens followed him quietly, stumbling over his suddenly too small limbs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thinking of making this a series. Also, another reincarnation got a quick mention in this chapter haha

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea for a while of this lot being reincarnated into HP.


End file.
